


the tenth time is the charm

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Alice in Wonderland, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - War, F/M, Panic! at the Disco lyrics inspired, Songfic, when i say james bond fusion i mean tnd (tomorrow never dies) au, when i say lawyers au i mean ace attorney au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten lives Charlotte van Rosenfeld and Vash Zwingli lived together throughout the ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the tenth time is the charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuma/gifts).



> _Well, in fact,_
> 
> _Well, I'll look at it this way,_
> 
> _I mean technically our marriage is saved_
> 
> _Well, this calls for a toast_
> 
> _So pour the champagne._

The first time they meet begins with an arranged marriage.

Neither of them cares particularly for it; in reality, both are disinterested. It is an arrangement agreed upon by both of their parents, being of noble families, and of course they want to secure their children's wealth and ensure their blood remains pure for future generations.

The engaged couple are nearly polar opposites, except for their common interest for money and general opulence. Charlotte van Rosenfeld is mischievous, playful – a charming woman who knows what she wants and exactly how she will obtain it. She likes to stir up entertaining scenarios and thrives with social interaction. Vash Zwingli, on the other hand, is straitlaced, assiduous, and prefers to keep to himself in his private study. Calculating and a man who's loyalty knows no bounds, he retains a no-nonsense composure.

Rarely do they interact of their own free will, much to their parents' despair. Both would rather lead their own lives until absolutely necessary to spend time with the other, but they are courteous and polite when they do.

“Good evening, Miss van Rosenfeld,” he greets stiffly, and Char rolls her eyes inwardly. Rather than show any signs of annoyance, she acts with over the top teasing for the sake of remaining civil during their interactions. Tonight there is a glamorous ball, and it is unfortunate that they are required to attend – and although Char yearns to ask the red-headed fellow by the refreshments to dance instead of the man standing in front of her, he is busy courting Vash's sister. Disappointing.

“How many times do I have to tell you that it's fine to call me Char?” She pouts, easily slipping into familiar teasing mannerisms. This is routine now, and the words rarely change as time goes on. “I would much rather prefer you do. But evening to you as well, Vash.”

Her fiance's eyes are a piercing green color, and she finds it strange how poignant they are. She shares a similar shade, but his are emerald while hers are what many remark as a bottle green. It is the most attractive physical feature he boasts, she thinks, and it is when she looks into them she finds herself not minding their arrangement.

“As you wish. Char,” Vash says, looking quite displeased at the lack of formality, and once again Char knows this is just another part of their never ending cycle of staged pleasantries. She resists the temptation to sigh. “Would you like to dance?”

Oh. This is new.

“Pardon?” she asks, a dazzling grin blooming across her face like one of Lili's cherished flowers from the Zwingli gardens.

“A dance,” he repeats, and Vash glances to the side, looking as if he wants to strangle someone. She follows the general direction of his glare to find his much more debonair cousin, Francis Bonnefoy, looking quite pleased with himself. Ah, that would explain it. And Char knows for sure now that he would actually strangle his relative if given the chance, but she likes Francis and is grateful to him for this development, so she will give him time to enjoy himself before his inevitable murder that is bound to happen later this evening.

“I would love to,” and she means it, she deeply admires the art of dancing. It is beautiful when both partners are acutely aware of where their feet need to be at the right time, and Char trusts Vash enough to know the basics of a simple waltz.

He offers his hand, looking abashed, and she takes it with a sense of serenity she has never felt before. Perhaps it is due to breaking their tired routine. Char finds herself wishing to have such an occurrence become more common if this is what trying new experiences between the two of them feels like.

The music plays graciously in the background, and they are both subconsciously aware of the notes as they move together in one fluid movement. Step back, forward, back again, and now to the left. Turn, letting her dress unfurl from its place around her legs, and return to take his arm in her right hand once again. Everything seems so  _simple_  now. Their arrangement is no longer a burden on their shoulders, a weight they must endure for the rest of their lives as long as they may live. This is genuinely fun, something that Char was formerly not sure Vash had ever experienced before in his young life.

“Do you write?” she inquires abruptly. Vash is visibly startled, his brown creasing from confusion at the sudden question. She does not blame him, it is out of the blue.

“Write? No, I can't say I do.”

“A shame,” Char breathes in his ear, an intimate, fond gesture which makes him involuntarily shudder, “I do. But I should warn you: I write sins, not tragedies.” She smiles coyly at him, gauging his reaction, something she has always found at least some amusement in during other earlier meetings that were meant to acquaint them further than merely unwilling fiances. They are always terribly funny for some reason, and she likens it to the way his nose scrunches up when he is not sure how to properly react – not that there is a proper reaction for anything about Char, anyways.

“Poetic,” he murmurs, and she concedes to giving him one charming point for that, as well as for not responding with religious commentary, despite his beliefs. She and her close friend Ciel Blanc had a game of sorts, being both engaged to distinctly stubborn  _un_ charming men – Ciel's betrothed being none other than Char's dear older brother, Niklaas. When either Niklaas or Vash said something remotely sweet or vaguely romantic, they would deal points to the unsuspecting men. Char and Ciel are both women with a refined sense of such games for amusing themselves, but it is simply a fancier way of giving themselves the excuse to gossip about their wayward romantic lives – or lack thereof.

She laughs, a tinkling sound reminiscent of a bell. Her laugh is one of her most prized, self-proclaimed traits, and that is another game she and Ciel partake in; finding each other's strengths and best charismatic aspects. “Thank you. I try.”

As a reward for not questioning what she has just implied and not reacting in an explosive, dramatic way (although she was certain the latter would not occur), she kisses him on the cheek and he turns a rosy red, which she finds adorable. She can hear Francis chuckling over the melodious orchestra, and she is aware they have at least a small audience who is observing the couple with undisguised interest.

For the first time, they leave together that night.

* * *

> _I can only hope it's true enough_
> 
> _That every little thing I do for love_
> 
> _Redeems me from the moments I deem worthy_
> 
> _Of the worst things that I've done._

The second time they meet is a particularly fateful encounter. A tragedy bound to happen, despite Char's words in their first life together, insisting she writes sins instead of tragedies – but this life is wrought with both.

She is a vampire, a dreaded creature of the night. She sometimes jokes that she is also a lady of the night with Ciel, which is met with rolled eyes, a wry smile, and _that was funny the first hundred times, Char, but now it's grown old_. Living the life of a supernatural creature is not easy, as there are hunters. She has heard stories of a pair known as the Winchesters who constantly give her kind and other supernatural entities immense amounts of trouble, but she is not worried about them at the moment.

Rather, her primary concern lies with the hunter named Vash Zwingli who is currently stalking her.

From what she has researched, she has learned that Vash does not hunt down just any monster he happens to come by. His past is enshrouded in mystery, besides the fact he apparently has a sister – or rather, he _had_  one. She seems to have disappeared years ago, and rumor has it he desires revenge for her assumed death. But other than that, he appears to have simply taken up hunting as a self-proclaimed occupation.

Char does not know what she has to do with this – she never met Lili Zwingli, and was certainly not responsible for whatever may have happened to her. In fact, it angers Char she is being targeted for this. She would prefer to be given her just deserts for deaths she is actually responsible for if she is going to be killed by a hunter.

She has just finished her meal for the night, depositing the now lifeless body in the trash. She does not like to litter. She brushes her hands off after licking the last bit of remaining blood – O negative was a rare delicacy, after all – when she hears familiar footsteps. Although they are muffled, they are quite obvious. Char rolls her eyes and turns around.

“You might as well come out, Mr. Hunter,” she calls mockingly, her voice echoing off the walls of the dirty alleyway. The footsteps stop abruptly, and she cannot help but chuckle. “What? Thought I couldn't hear you? Sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but you're pretty bad at sneaking.”

There is the sound of a gun cocking, and finally Vash Zwingli steps out from the cover of darkness. Not that that would have helped him in any way; vampires have keen eyesight, similar to cats, despite their familiar association with bats. Being blind and using echolocation would be weird and definitely not fun, she thinks.

“Charlotte van Rosenfeld,” he says, and Char's eyes widen, her already frozen blood figuratively running cold. She cannot believe what she is hearing – how the _hell_  would this jackass know what her full name is, when she had not even told her most trusted allies? Her eyes narrow again, this time to hostile slits. “I've been looking for you.”

“ _Looking_  for me?” she repeats, scandalized. Her usual charade of playfulness has no place here, not now. She feels impatient. There is a gun aimed at her heart, which irritates her, but it does not matter. Vampires had to be beheaded before they truly died. “To kill me, you mean?”

Vash looks pained, perhaps disgusted at her disheveled appearance. Her clothes are embellished with specks and splatters of blood, something she knew her creator Sera would enjoy. Her blonde hair, usually so well-kept, was sullied and matted with the drying liquid. She notices that his eyes are green like emeralds, shining under the moonlight, and they waver. His slight change in body language indicates he wants to lower his gun, but he keeps it steady like a good hunter should do. No sane one would ever consider dropping their weapon or defense during a direct confrontation with the supernatural.

“You mean... You don't remember?”

And Char is thrown for a loop, because she has no fucking idea what this human is on or what he is talking about. If he was referring to her former life as a human, she was positive she would remember Vash Zwingli, but she does not. She is slowly but surely coming to the conclusion that this man is crazy and deluded, and Char wants no part in it.

“Remember what?” she snaps, baring her growing fangs. They begin to leak venom, and she advances towards him threateningly. This is a scare tactic that usually works on others, but Vash must have a resolve of steel not to even flinch. He is here to talk, she observes, but he also knows he must be prepared to kill her if it became absolute necessary. “You're lucky I haven't killed you already!”

He hesitates, but his expression becomes determined again and Char's loathing grows exponentially. “Our last life together, Char. We had an arranged marriage, and initially we both detested our parents' decision, but we came to genuinely respect and love each other. I asked you to dance at the ball because of my stupid cousin of a romantic's insistence to properly court you. We had,” he swallows thickly, “a child. A beautiful daughter, but you passed away while giving birth to her. You never had the chance to see her. You really don't remember?”

It sounds so _real_  for a moment, that Char stops in her tracks. His words contain no lies, no ill intention, and they are as sweet as a siren's call. It is ironic, because the situation should be reversed.  _She_  should be the one telling him these false tales, not the other way around. She finds herself desperately wishing it to be true. It sounds like a dream, something out of a fairytale she read as a human, and something she cannot ever have after what she has done. She believes in fate. She will one day have to repent for her sins – she has always known this and has chosen to accept it when the time came, and now she numbly begins to think this is the day. Vash Zwingli is the one destined to kill her.

“No,” Char whispers, and lunges at him.

Taken aback at the sudden movement, Vash fires his gun out of reflex, and the shot goes through her upper abdomen. Not quite her heart, but close,  _so close_. The physical pain is real and she snarls in his ear, bleeding on top of the hunter. She aggravates him, pushing him, causing his adrenaline to kick into gear to ensure he _survives_  as they wrestle on the filthy ground. Her fangs near dangerously close to his throat, before he shoves her forcefully off and is now on her, effectively reversing their positions. He now has a long knife in his hands, the gun most likely left abandoned on the grimy cement somewhere else.

“Sexy,” she hisses with a breathy, wild laugh and it is desperate, because she has never been able to not joke when the opportunity arises, and even when she is about to die she cannot help such a bad habit. The blade of the knife presses comfortably against her throat, like it was meant to be there. This is her repentance. She is beginning to feel at peace already. Tears began to fall from above onto her face, and she scowls. “Just get it over with.”

That hesitance is there again, and she knows why. If he is telling the truth, if such a thing as reincarnation truly exists (well, why would it not when _vampires_  existed), then it is completely understandable. But Char growls anyways, low and animalistic. It is a reminder that she is feral, she _will_ hurt him, it would be best for everyone if he just killed her here and now, and just hurry up already and be done with it.

“I'm sorry,” Vash mouths, cheeks streaked with tears and all the other cliché fireworks, and puts all of his weight into the knife. The vampire has been beheaded at long last. It is over.

There is a peaceful smile on Char's face, as her lopsided head rolls away into the dirt, like she has finally been able to attain the repentance she has been searching for. Vash breathes heavily, the situation seeming to surreal to legitimately believe what had just happened. It is quiet, and it hurts to know people will not care about what had occurred here tonight or why because they do not relate, but he is resolved to continue chasing after Charlotte van Rosenfeld across lifetimes – no matter how long it takes. This is his curse.

“Oh glory,” he allows himself a moment to pray, and he plunges the bloodied knife into his own heart.

* * *

> _Save her or feel it sinking in_
> 
> _Let me save you, hold this rope_
> 
> _I am an anchor, sinking her._

The third time they meet, they once again stand on opposing sides. One is claimed by Heaven, and the other by Hell following their intertwined deaths in their second life together – acting as polar opposites as Charity and Greed.

Greed is out doing what the Vices do best – spreading their influence as far as it could reach among the unsuspecting humans – when Charity appears before her, much to her chagrin. Both are able to remember their previous lives this time, and Greed prefers not to think about what happened, the pain she caused Charity. It is not her fault for what happened; it had been intended by fate, and she is fairly sure there will be more of this heartbreak to come. As a result, she has been avoiding Charity as much as possible, and it is not surprising to either of them why.

“Greed,” Charity says, doing his best to make eye contact for once, letting green meet green. It is almost laughable after all of this time. Greed crosses her arms, unimpressed.

“What, Charity? You know we're not supposed to be talking,” she replies, with what has now become a signature eye roll. “Heaven and Hell decreed that for a reason.”

“I realize,” he grumbles, and she does laugh this time. He is still the same stick in the mud as always, even if he is some sort of celestial being now. It is sort of incredible, she thinks, and she is starting to believe this relationship between the two of them is _too_  unhealthy and toxic for their own good. The attraction that exists is mutual, certainly, but it is not like they are able to do anything now that they are the embodiments of Greed and Charity themselves. It is some quirky form of love that the romantic in her would like to believe can transcend time, space, and even God and the Devil, but they will have to wait for the verdict on that one. “I have... a proposal for you.”

Her eyebrows shoot straight up now, and she will admit she is intrigued. Charity, having a proposal? This seems to be more her style, rather than his. He is just full of surprises, apparently. “Not another marriage proposal, I hope. We both know how well that turned out last time,” she teases, even though her heart aches despairingly.

The look Charity gives her stops the thudding immediately, hitting her like a splash of icy water to the face, and she knows she should not have said that. It is a gaze of pained longing, sad, and forlorn. Serious too, even though Greed knows Charity does not joke, in stark contrast to her endless merrymaking. Although the first proposal had been unwarranted at the time, feelings had genuinely developed throughout their shared life. And now, it is something that will apparently plague them for the rest of the lives they may be granted to live.

“Something to that effect,” Charity finally says, hands tucking into the pockets of his finely lined trousers. He avoids her eyes, a sign that Greed is now familiar with, meaning he feels shy and just a bit ridiculous. She is sure whatever is about to come out of his pretty mouth will be rich, wondrously so, and she eagerly awaits it – she _is_  Greed, after all.

“I was thinking about Falling.” His words are blunt, cutting, and as sharp as the knife that had claimed both of their final breaths in their last life. Greed wants to burst out laughing, dismiss it as a poorly timed joke, be done with it, and move on with her current life.

But she cannot. She stands stock still.

“Pardon?” she manages at last, and it is unbecoming for a Vice like her. It is very reminiscent of the time he first asked her to dance, two lives ago – their first life that they could remember, at the very least. He seems to think this too, and he allows a small, but very real, smile.

“I want to Fall, to be able to at long last trade mistakes. To surrender my position as Charity, and return to being Vash Zwingli for the remainder of this life,” Charity admits freely, and he has a serene expression as if he has been waiting to confide in her for wanting this for a long time. He most likely has, and Greed feels numb again at hearing her former lover's true name. “I still love you. I want us to be together,” this confession comes with the usual flustered flush, “will you join me, as Charlotte van Rosenfeld?”

“This is a lot to take in,” Greed says, and it is true. Her own true name is seared into her mind now, beginning to fester like a painful sore, unwilling to let her go now that she has heard it once again after all this time. Excluding that, Charity had just openly declared his love for her, something so out of character that Greed thought she might be going into shock. He also was demonstrating explicit signs of “greed,” so to speak, as he said he wants her with him. It is against everything in Heaven's moral code or whatever it is called, and Greed thinks that these actions enough may be reason to go with him. He is already starting to Fall. “I must be rubbing off on you,” she snips automatically, as a last ditch reflexive defensive tactic.

Charity nods sagely, and Greed is exasperated at his ignorance. It is wasted on him, she decides. Therefore, the choice is obvious.

“Yes. Yes, I'll Fall with you,” she breathes, throwing all previous inhibitions away, pretending the irony of a Vice like her giving in to the unforgivable is not happening, and the stifling tension in the air between them dissipates at long last. She rushes forward to embrace him, and he sweeps her off of her feet with his green irises glowing with relieved happiness. They press their lips together and they are kissing, and the power they had held only moments before begins to melt away, draining from their bodies. They are Falling, sinking into the depths of humanity from their status of Vices and Virtues willingly surrendering what had once been theirs to be rightfully regain something that had been lost.

Finally, it ends. They are no longer Greed and Charity. They are Charlotte van Rosenfeld and Vash Zwingli once again. They are human, and they are happy.

* * *

 

> _You've got these little things_
> 
> _That you've been running from_
> 
> _You either love them or I guess you don't_
> 
> _You're such a pretty thing_
> 
> _To be running from anyone._

The fourth time they meet is unlike any of the others. It is not romantic. It is brief. Neither is aware of their previous lives together, of their shared experiences intertwined irrevocably with despair, tragedy, sins – but also happiness, joy, and love.

They are still fairly young, and this is quite an unusual meeting. Char is sitting in the backyard of her family's house underneath her favorite tree to climb, and is a rather normal and bored child. The middle of three siblings, her older brother Niklaas if off somewhere most likely doing drugs with his older friends, and Marianne is playing with her dolls inside. She usually would not mind playing dolls with her sister, but today she is not in the mood and has grown tired of the same games.

She is reading a book about vices and virtues. It is primarily Catholic, and although she personally is not very religious in her beliefs, her family is and she does not want to disappoint them. Her favorites to read about are greed and charity for some reason, and she is not quite sure why, but perhaps it is the relation to money. Whatever the reason may be, she finds it interesting – everything else is a bit boring, though.

Char flips through the pages, having finished reading what she considers the interesting sections, when she hears a rustle in the bushes. She looks up, curious, and stands. She hopes it is an animal. Preferably a cat. She absolutely adores cats.

Instead, as she nears the shrubs, two tall, white rabbit ears pop out. She is startled, but her eyes light up with delight, and she squeals. The ears which had been twitching now freeze at the sound, and Char slaps a small hand over her mouth too late.

A boy around her age appears from the branches, with surprisingly human looking features of silken blonde hair and distracted viridescent eyes, despite the ears. He is dressed quite nicely in a stormy gray suit, decorated with a beautiful gold pocket watch. He looks impatient, foot tapping, and he starts to scurry away without one glance in her direction.

“Wait!” Char cries, stumbling after him with the immediate urge to pursue him. The boredom is beginning to fizzle away now, and her childish interest is piqued. “Please, wait for me!”

He shows no signs of hearing her desperate pleas, and continues running for another good half a minute before ducking under a grand oak tree. He is no longer in sight. She catches up to where he disappeared; a wide, dark hole in the ground. Char peers in, and she cannot see the bottom. The thought that it may never end occurs to her, and while other might normally be frightened at such a thought, she is merely determined. She desires to talk to that strange boy, wanting to know where he was going and why he is in such a hurry. He looks so serious, but maybe he would be willing to play with her if she asked nicely, and they could be friends.

Char inhales deeply. “I'm ready to go,” she says to the oak tree like a confession of a past sin, and jumps in.

* * *

 

> _And it was beautifully depressing,_
> 
> _Like a street car named Desire._
> 
> _They were fighting for their love that had started growing tired._

The fifth time they meet is fairly normal. They are both immigrants who found themselves in the golden land of America, the land of opportunity, to live the coveted American Dream. The times are hard when immigrants are plenty and there is not as many jobs to be taken, but they get by.

They find each other through the limited work they are able to keep. They think of each other as familiar somehow, despite having never met before – in this life time, at least, but they do not remember. They fancy each other, slowly but surely, like it was meant to be, and soon they wed.

It is not the happiest marriage, but it is certainly not the worst. They have found a companion to share their homes and now their lives with; they share their earliest memories of moving from their respective homes of Switzerland and Belgium to the states. They talk about what their families are like, and how much they miss their siblings who have gone and settled in the West, spurred on by the promise of gold. They share the dreams they once had, knowing now they are futile, and they are living a domestic life.

Then the announcement of war comes.

It becomes a requirement for as many men as possible to join the force. Many are conscripted against their will, and Vash stubbornly refuses. He says he will stay neutral, no matter what. This is not his far to fight, but he will observe it.

Char disagrees. She is vocal in her support for the war, advocating that they should participate for the sake of supporting this nation they live in. Although this means that they would be parted from the other and the risk of dying is very real, her stance is firm.

“I'm not fighting in this war,” Vash says, and his word is final.

“Fine,” Char's eyes are cool, a green akin to frost covered leaves in the winter that is harder than steel, “ _I'll_ go, then.”

He stares at her like she has gone mad, and Char cannot help but smile. The air is heavy, suffocating her, but she will not back down from her proclamation. She is serious.

“You can't,” he sputters, and he looks wild all of a sudden. Char knows he does not open up easily to people, and the prospect of losing another person who he cares for is not an option. He still misses Lili, she is well aware. This hurts him, but Char means business.

“I can and I will,” she moves to their small bedroom, and begins to gather her things. She does not have many, so it is easy to find the limited possessions she does own. “Eli has went and joined, and I don't see why I shouldn't either.”

Vash stands in the doorway, watching her move briskly about. His eyes have now become clouded, unreadable. “Elizaveta shouldn't have done that. She–“

“It would be nice if you actually respected people's decisions, Vash,” she cuts him off, frostily. Eli is a sensitive topic between the two of them, as Vash does not recognize how he is a woman one day, and a man the next. Not many people do in these times, and Char hopes that this will change in the future.

But it is another shot at him, and his expression falters. It is once again reminded him of his sister, and Char regrets using her against him. But she is determined to keep her word.

She moves past him, heading towards the exit of their cramped living space. She hears him follow, and turns to face him one last time. Vash is pale, his face strained, and Char feels a pang of loss. It is sad how she is willing to participate in the war in her husband's place, rather than both of them staying together for as long as possible. But it is just as sad that Vash will not move from his staunch neutral position, even at the expense of losing his wife. Their love has waned, at long last, into a moonless night.

“I'm sorry,” Char apologizes in an attempt to soothe the scars she has just reopened, caressing his cheek, and she presses her lips against the corner of his. Vash does not return the kiss, motionless. How bittersweet. “But this is something I have to do. I'll be back, alright? Wait for me.”

“I will,” he says, and she is not sure she believes him. His eyes are unable to meet hers, and she kisses him one last time on his temple.

“Good bye,” she waves, and the door closes with a sense of finality.

Vash, keeping his word, waits.

Three years later, the war ends. The streets are uproarious. People celebrate, crying with victory and shedding tears of pure happiness when their loved ones come home, kissing them on both cheeks and grateful that they survived the fighting. It is a joyful occasion.

Char does not return.

* * *

 

> _Talk to the mirror, oh, choke back tears._
> 
> _And keep telling yourself that "I'm a diva!"_
> 
> _Oh, and the smokes in that cigarette box on the table,_
> 
> _They just so happen to be laced with nitroglycerin._

The sixth time they meet is at a party. And not just any party, mind you, but one of the infamous Mr. O'Neill-Kirkland parties that is the hit of the decade in the United States – perhaps even of the century. People whisper and gossip about how incredible these enormous parties are, and Char is proudly a flapper.

The dress she wears was purchased with glee – specially tailored just for her, it was a stunning golden yellow, the flecks gleaming under the vibrant lighting of the uproarious party. A matching cloche is seated on her dresser at home, and for now she wears a headband with a fitting feather. She adores the style of dress, the fancy sparkles and glitter, and of course, the never ending chances to flirt and dance with the party's attendees. The lights are bright, colorful, and vibrant; the music is loud, full of swing, and absolutely wonderful. The food and booze are probably the best part, and Char never goes home sober or with an empty stomach anymore.

This is the 1920s. This is the life belonging to the disgustingly wealthy, upper-class. They have too much time on their hands, and are forced to occupy themselves by dancing their lives away.

Char first sees him standing awkwardly by a table with a glass in his hand. He is familiar, and she has a vague, nagging sense why. Blonde hair rather well-kept, but not impervious to the overwhelming amounts of glitter and confetti drifting through the air, his eyes almost... distrustful. He looks unhappy, disgruntled, and as if he would rather be anywhere else but this party. She wonders why, and in a typical moment of impulsiveness, she steps graciously over towards him.

“Evening, Mr....?” Char greets, leaving space for him to introduce himself. She nearly has to shout over the music and the chatter surrounding them, and the man winces at the unwelcome addition of noise.

“Zwingli. Vash Zwingli,” he grumbles, displeased. He appears to be anti-social, but not enough to refrain from introducing himself. A decent enough start, with hope this conversation will continue pleasantly enough throughout the rest of the night – it was still young, and there was plenty of time to get to know the fellow. That name, though, strikes a cord of resonance in her – that is why he seems so familiar, she realizes, she recognizes the surname. He is the brother of the woman Mr. O'Neill-Kirkland is enamored with, the lovely Miss Lili, although she is wedded to the straitlaced Mr. Arthur Kirkland. The details are not well known to most, but gossip is rampant throughout the community, another one of the many ways the upper-class likes to entertain themselves.

“Charlotte van Rosenfeld, a pleasure,” she says, sidling up towards him further with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Are you having fun, Mr. Zwingli?” She is able to guess the answer, judging by his demeanor and uncomfortable body language, but she never liked to take short cuts – she much rather prefers to drag it out, much like taking a long drag from a cigarette.

“Not particularly,” is the answer as expected, and she laughs taking a long sip from her wine. The music soars above them, above everyone, and there are never ending whoops and cheers of excited dancing that swirls around them. It is a hurricane of pure thrill and emotion, and there are very few other ways that people can get a rush like this nowadays.

“Well, there's a good reason these tables are numbered, honey,” Char begins with a twinkle in her eye, polishing off the glass, “you just haven't thought of it yet.”

Vash gives her an unamused expression, unimpressed with her ambiguous statement and the use of a pet name. His nose scrunches together in a bunch, like he has smelled something putrid in the air, and Char cannot help but feel offended at his complete lack of humor. “Right.”

“You should really lighten up some more,” she remarks. Placing the glass on a nearby table, she takes his hands which had been formerly nearly glued to his sides. “Come on, let's dance!”

She tugs him towards a generally more free area that has a distinct lack of sweaty, inebriated people, and although he does not look enthused, he lets her. Easily Char begins swinging in time to the jazzy melody, the music taking over her body, and it flows through her veins like wildfire. It is like an adrenaline rush, the alcohol enhancing the beautiful high. Everyone around her besides her current partner disappear. This is what she lives for, and she would not have it any other way.

Vash, at the very least, is familiar with the art of dancing. He must have had lessons, because there is no way Char believes he is a natural. His movements still retain that bit of characteristic stiffness, in a practiced way. She wonders who taught him, who spent all of those hours teaching him this form; although not for nothing, he is quite talented for such a rigid disposition. She is guiding them through the steps, but he keeps up with ease – even though his brow remains so infuriatingly creased.  
  
They spin and step and twirl for what seems like hours, and at last he is holding her in a dip. Their eyes meet, and Char sees something different in the pools of green she did not notice before. There is something akin to gentleness that she thinks he must hide on a daily basis. It is sad, truly; she likes this gentle green, like a tender zephyr through tall blades of grass on a warm summer day. A rarity, a true emerald in the rough in these times.

“You are much better than I thought you’d be,” she admits with a laugh, and he at least has the decency to look flustered over her comment. “Oh, don’t look so upset! What else was I supposed to think upon first setting eyes on you? You don’t exactly look like the dancing type, you should very well know.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” mutters Vash, pulling her up from the dip at last, and Char is surprised his arms were not tired before. She is not exactly light, she is well aware, and is impressed with his choice not to show the strain. Either that, or Vash is stronger than he appears – but considering he is able to dance as well as he can, perhaps she should stop assuming things of the man. She is familiar with the saying that appearances are deceiving, as she is the prime example of it herself.  
  
The party has begun clearing out now, the night having miraculously already passed early into the morning. She had not realized how much time she had spent with Vash. The grand interior is draped with endless strings of iridescent confetti, with other trash lining the once perfectly polished floors. The obnoxious glitter which has exploded across the entire expanse of the room covers every inch. Char idly feels guilty and tired on the behalf of the people Mr. O’Neill-Kirkland hires to clean his brilliant mansion following these extravagant parties, but it is gone as quickly as she had begun to ponder over it. Car engines roar to life as the guests deem it an appropriate time to leave, having drunk too much for their health.  
  
Vash begins to leave too, and Char watches him move towards the door. “Will I see you again?”  
  
He slips his coat on, sparing her a lingering smile, the first she has been graced with this evening. It triggers something in her. A night, decades ago – no, _centuries_  ago – where she danced with a man who looked identical to the Vash before her. She has a niggling sense of besotted romance and physical attraction. This is affirmed in between sheets, and Char’s cheeks are hot as this sense of deja vu courses through her. It is all too familiar.  
  
“Maybe. It depends on whether or not Lili requests my presence,” he says. “Well. Thank you for the dance. Good night, then.”  
  
He exits from the hall, but Char feels as if he has just exited from her life. _Wait,_  she wants to scream after him, _wait, don’t leave me here. I need to ask you something. Do you believe in soulmates? Because I think we have met before, in another lifetime. I think we’re meant to be together forever._  
  
The words are caught in her throat. She says nothing as Vash Zwingli once again leaves.

* * *

 

> _Oh, I'd confess, I'd confess, in a room where I'm blessed._
> 
> _But he didn't come and speak to me,_
> 
> _Or put my heart at ease._

The seventh time they meet is an one-sided affair. She sees him this time, but he does not return the favor. Char remembers everything, and she doubts that Vash is able to. If he did, she is fairly certain that he would have made an effort to find her in this life.   
  
Vash Zwingli is a famous model. He has photoshoots, a glamorous reputation, and a dazzling smile. Introduced into the career by his even more well-known cousin Francis Bonnefoy (cousins again, she muses), he is well-armed for his life this time around. Char cannot help but feel jealous that it is he who is living so luxuriously, and not her; as well as the obvious fact that she is not with him. It hurts, after all they have been through, with their love having survived through all of these lifetimes now.  
  
He is so far away, so out of reach. Char will purchase magazines with him on the cover, and they do an article on him. It talks about his life story, how he became so popular, what he does in his free time, and oh, are you dating Miss Aoife O’Neill? The tabloids are wild with rumors and gossip, and Char has a difficult time finishing the story, but she does because she loves him and wants to know all about him in this life when she cannot learn it personally. She runs her fingers down his picture, tracing his smile and his eyes, and admires how fine he looks in these designer clothes. It is breathtaking how handsome he is sometimes, and she is sad a little more each time she leafs through a new magazine.   
  
Finally, she attends one of his modeling shows. It costs nearly a fortune for a ticket, saving up her meager savings as a waitress and cashier at a chain store. The airplane fare costs a decent sum as well, and soon she knows she will be in trouble. Perhaps she will have to turn to the life of a cat burglar, she jokes with herself, but the chance to see him in person will be worth it.  
  
The runway is as stunning as the media portrays it to be. The music is riveting, something that automatically makes you want to dance in your chair, and the lights brighter than the sun’s rays on its best days. The people chattering surround her are much more fashionable than Char expected, and she feels strangely underdressed despite wearing her best garments for the occasion.   
  
She does not know what she is hoping to accomplish exactly by attending this event, besides being able to finally see Vash in person once again. But perhaps a small, tiny, miniscule part of her is desperately hoping Vash will somehow lay eyes on her and the memories will come flooding back, raging like a hurricane. It is the optimist in her; she is setting herself up to fall, but she just wants to have this ephemeral flame before it is blown out by the winds of reality.   
  
The show starts. It is featuring a ice queen-like woman named Natalya Arlovskaya, Francis Bonnefoy himself, and of course, Vash Zwingli. All three are amazingly gorgeous, and Char melts as they show off their designated outfits. There are cheers from all around her as each one struts their stuff as they walk, swaying their hips, winking (in Francis’s case), and waving for the audience with a smile before posing at the end for several moments to take in and relish the screams of approval from the sea of attendees. Oohs and aahs are heard from all sides, filling the air, and camera shutters are constantly going off in the background. Char prays Vash will glance in her direction, just a tiny glimpse from where she sits in the mass crowd of people.  
  
But he does not, even after all of the outfits he models for the audience, after all the chances he had to simply _see_ her.  
  
When it finishes, that is it. There is no other chance to talk with him, to get him to know she exists in this life. It is over.  
  
Char stands, and offers one last longing gaze to the stage which Vash has just finished modeling on. With her heartstrings singing in protest, tangling together in a horrible, messy bunch, she leaves.

* * *

 

> _So I guess we're back to us, oh cameraman, swing the focus_
> 
> _In case I lost my train of thought, where was it that we last left off?_

“Objection!”

The eighth time they meet, they are lawyers, standing on the opposite sides of the courtroom. Neither remembers the lives they lived previous to this one. Vash Zwingli is known as the Demon Prosecutor these days, and Charlotte van Rosenfeld is a defense attorney with the simple goal of attempting to be able to talk and reason with the man who she had once proudly called her childhood friend.  
  
This is not their first encounter since Vash disappeared following his father’s death. Their first reunion was during the court case centered on Char’s former mentor Lukas Bondevik’s death with Emil Bondevik as the original defendant – although, after proving Emil’s innocence, Char had been accused herself and forced to act as her own defense attorney. An unusual circumstance to be sure, but a necessary one in the order of things. The Bondeviks are a clan of spirit mediums, and even though it sounds completely unrealistic, especially for a lawyer as herself, Emil saved her ass before.   
  
Now, they are working together. Char has inherited Lukas’s office, and it is now titled Van Rosenfeld Co. and Law. Emil works as her assistant, having an unusually strong love for licorice, which constantly needs to be satiated. It drains Char’s very limited wallet, but she is fond of him, and appreciates him greatly for his assistance and everything he has done for her.  
  
“Mr. Jones could not have murdered the victim,” Char declares, finger outstretched, “because the witness Ms. Braginskaya is unreliable. Her claim that she witnessed Mr. Jones and Mr. Braginsky fighting moments before the crime took place is impossible.”  
  
“Objection!” Vash immediately intercepts, unwilling to allow his witness to be discredited without evidence. “Where is your proof, van Rosenfeld? Surely you still aren’t grasping to make wild and meaningless conjecture.”  
  
“Objection! Your Honor, I have evidence and I will prove it.”  
  
“Very well,” the Judge Romulus Vargas strokes his beard, thoughtful, “show the court this evidence. Be warned that you will be penalized if you are incorrect, Ms. van Rosenfeld.”  
  
Char smirks, and she knows she will win. She uses her clicker to display the timestamped picture from one of the many security cameras in the office building. “The witness Katyusha Braginskaya is clearly depicted on the second floor in her office at 8 PM, the time of the murder.”  
  
“Your point being?” Vash scoffs, impatient.  
  
“The scene of the crime was on the eleventh floor, Zwingli,” she grins, crossing her arms, “Ms. Braginskaya couldn’t have possibly made it to that floor in time to place my client at the scene.”  
  
Ms. Braginskaya looks stricken, and tries to protest, “But I _was_ there, I swear–”  
  
“Objection!” Char cuts in, shaking her head. “It’s not possible, unless you somehow developed the ability to teleport. You should remember, Ms. Braginskaya, that lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off – but it doesn’t mean she should do it.”  
  
“Ms. van Rosenfeld!” Judge Vargas looks as if he regrets having to stop her, but his expression is stern. _Oops_. “I expect my courtroom to remain PG-13 for the youngsters in the audience.”  
  
The trial continues on like this, and at long last Char is able to get a Not Guilty verdict for Alfred F. Jones. She has managed to point justice in the correct direction of the true criminal, the overlooked secretary Sera Russo. She puts on a good facade, Char will admit, but not a good enough one to avoid being convicted for murdering her boss Ivan Braginsky.  
  
It feels good to win a case, she thinks, and stretches with a yawn. She did not get much sleep the previous night due to having to rush around to gather as much information for this case as she could, and she was ready to go home and take a nap.   
  
“Tired?” Emil asks, and although he looks a bit bored, he also looks sympathetic.   
  
“Yeah,” she yawns again, and cracks her neck. “I think I–”   
  
Char stops. Vash is waiting in the court house’s lobby, and this is it – she finally has the chance to talk to him after all these years of ignored letters and the general refusal of contact. _It’s about time_.  
  
Emil notices her pause, and follows her line of sight. He is quite perceptive, and he rolls his eyes knowingly. Although Emil can definitely be a good source of Char’s grief, she will be eternally grateful for his ability to read the situation. “Oh. I see. Well, I’d hate to interrupt, so I’ll leave you be for now. See you later, Char.”  
  
“Thanks,” she calls after him, as he makes a beeline for the door.  _I owe you one_. She inhales deeply, mentally preparing herself for what might easily turn out to be a headache inducing conversation, and moves over towards Vash. “Hey, Vash,” she greets with an easy-going smile, hoping this does not sound too awkward. “Nice, um… Good job in court today?” _Oh great._  
  
Vash examines her with little interest. It is a stiff movement, lacking fluidity, and Char frowns. “Don’t patronize me, Char. I lost.”  
  
“But we discovered the truth,” she argues, desperately hoping Vash will understand her point. Lukas had taught her this when he had still been alive, that as long as the truth was uncovered, that was all that mattered. “That’s the most important part of our jobs, win record or not!”

What hurts the most is that Vash looks like he wants to believe her, but is physically incapable of doing so. She knows he was taken in and raised by Ludovicius Beilschmidt, the infamous prosecutor with a forty year winning streak,  after his own father was murdered. Living under his roof could not have been easy or pleasant from what she can discern of the rumors surrounding Beilschmidt and his iron resolve to do anything to win a Guilty verdict. The idea disgusts Char, and she knows it would disgust the old Vash who had yearned to be a defense attorney when he was a boy; but that innocence had been ripped away forcefully from his soul when he was only nine.   
  
“You’re still too naive,” he says finally, and gathers his papers to leave. Char is angered at his response, but does not stop him as he walks out the door. This is one moment out of the many she will have in the present and in the future – moments that she did not have in the past – now that she is taking cases that Vash is prosecuting. There will be chances, she tells herself, there is no need to worry.  
  
How wrong she is.  
  
A year later, a note is found on Vash Zwingli’s desk in his office: _Vash Zwingli chooses death._

* * *

 

> _A pretty picture but the scenery is so loud,_
> 
> _A face like heaven catching lighting in your nightgown,_
> 
> _But back away from the water, babe, you might drown–_
> 
> _The party isn't over tonight._

The ninth time they meet is in London, at another fancy and over the top socialite party. Their memories of past lives still remained locked away. Charlotte van Rosenfeld is a thief, a con artist, and a cat burglar; Vash Zwingli is an MI6 agent, assigned to capture who is responsible for the recent spike in criminal activity regarding stolen valuables from high-class affairs. He does not have many clues as to who the culprit it, but he is on guard and undercover as another filthy rich party attendee, drowning in unnecessary opulence.  
  
“Everything is going smoothly tonight. No signs of trouble,” Ciel’s quiet voice is ever present in Char’s ear, keeping her updated on the status of whether or not it was safe to continue their operations. She acts as a distraction, a luminous beacon to attract the bugs in swarms. Their partnership is stemmed from a genuine friendship, one that is rare to both involved parties. It is nice, Char notes, being able to trust someone as much as she can Ciel Blanc. “But, as always, keep an eye out.”  
  
“Roger that,” Char murmurs cheerfully into her earpiece, weaving in and out through the crowds. She takes some time to flirt and charm a few of the party’s guests, but carefully ensures she does nothing that will be too memorable. It is not too difficult, having a mostly plain and modest face to begin with that is easily forgotten if people did not try to remember, and she is grateful for her genetics for the briefest of moments.  
  
Her lips are smeared with amornarbital, a soporific that will do the trick to subduing any potential problems with one kiss. As a consequence, she constantly has to remind herself her lips are covered with the chemical, and must refrain from subconsciously licking her lips or otherwise ingesting the chemical without meaning to. It is a creation of her own fusion after receiving the chemicals from Lukas Bondevik himself, and she is proud to use it. Unfortunately, she is often drowsy towards the end of the evening regardless she manages to stop the chemical from entering her body, just by it being present in her general vicinity for an extended period of time. Ciel is burdened with the duty of ensuring Char is able to escape successfully, and her friend is responsible for taking care of her, besides information gathering and acting as the main distraction in their little wayward charade.  
  
On her way towards the designated point where she is supposed to find this particular host’s main source of material wealth, she bumps into a man with finely combed blonde hair and observant, intelligent green eyes. He is handsome, she muses, and what a shame it is she does not have too much time to acquaint herself with him – but it would not hurt to spend a _little_ time on this one.  
  
“Oh, excuse me, darling,” she drawls, fluttering her eyelashes, “pardon me.”  
  
The man looks gruff, unimpressed with her apology, but nods anyways. It is interesting, she observes, as he does not carry the stench of ostentatious flamboyance as the rest seem to do. “It’s fine, my apologies as well.”  
  
“I have not seen you around before,” titters Char, hiding behind a giggle. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Daniel Craig,” he says.  
  
“A pleasure! You can call me Miss Jackson,” she winks, and laughs at his displeased expression at the lack of a first name, but he does not appear to care as much as she would like. Which, of course, is perfectly suitable for Char’s own personal mission, but it is an irritating blow to her pride when it comes down to it, plain and simple.  
  
“Likewise.”  
  
She is not going to accomplish much more here, she can tell. She loses interest. With a small nod of acknowledgment, she says, “Oh my, is that some foie gras? I simply must try some!” It is easy to move on, as Mr. Craig does nothing to protest her leave – which, yet again, wounds her personally. It works perfectly fine for the typical plan, but it is an annoyance.  
  
“Here we go,” Char breathes in a barely audible signal to Ciel, and she receives an affirmative. She slips away, unnoticed to snatch the crown jewels Mr. Dixie Normous possesses and has flaunted numerous times. The name is ridiculous and she cannot help but roll her eyes, wondering if the pun was a horrible fate given to the man by his parents. Either way, she does not care; the only thing that is important to her right now are those jewels.  
  
Minutes pass as she gathers all she can carry. The window is a logical place for her to dump out the bags full of the night’s prizes, as the security system is disabled for the night for the party – as well as the fact that opening the window from the inside would not cause an alarm; it is primarily someone from the  _outside_ breaking in that people are always concerned about. Well, as they say, ignorance is bliss.  
  
She tosses the bags out of the now open window. A breeze filters in with the scent of the grimy streets and car exhaust, and she closes it as quickly as she opened it. Now is the time for Ciel and her to make a break for it, exiting the party somewhat early compared to most, but a few guests have already begun their departure. Their systematic strategy was indeed a fine one.  
  
The door creaks open behind Char, and she stiffens. She relaxes a moment later, and glances towards the newcomer with piqued interest, already having prepared several appropriate excuses if questioned what she was doing here, and if the missing jewels were noticed.  
  
What she was not expecting, however, was the newly acquainted Daniel Craig to walk in.  
  
He raises an eyebrow, immediately suspicions at her presence, and she sees his hand subconsciously go towards where a concealed gun must be hidden on his person. Of course. Just her luck. Why was Ciel always the lucky one?  “What are you doing in here, Miss Jackson?”  
  
“I could ask you the same thing,” she counters with a sweet smile, stepping towards him delicately. He tenses, but she makes sure her body language does not indicate anything threatening. She will have to charm her way out of this one, and it may prove to be difficult, seeing as how Craig – though she was beginning to suspect that was not actually his name now – had reacted earlier to her come-ons. “I was merely exploring. The chances that Mr. Normous ever lets people see his treasures are rare, I will have you know.”  
  
“I have to ask you to leave,” he states flatly, but Char is already close enough to lean in and kiss him, at last closing the gap. She can feel not-Craig recoil, and she indignantly presses against his lips more as he leans away, and at last he pushes her off. He sputters, wiping his lips with his hand. “What the _hell?_ ”  
  
“Good night, sir,” says Char, and breezes past him to join the rest of the party as quick as she could in high heels without appearing that she was running. She walks briskly, in order to avoid the man coming after her and compromising the con. “Ciel, we’re done here. Meet you at the rendezvous point.”  
  
“Understood,” is the smooth response, and Char moves through the mingling crowd with purpose, not bothering to spare a glance behind her. He hardly deserves it, and soon enough the amornarbital would kick in and render the man unconscious in a peaceful sleep. She spitefully hopes he will have pleasant dreams.  
  
“Daniel Craig, huh.”

* * *

 

> _C’mon, c’mon, with everything falling down around me_
> 
> _I’d like to believe in all the possibilities._

The tenth time they meet is perhaps what is actually the first time they truly met. They remember everything that has happened, what is happening now, and what will happen in these shared lives of theirs as Charlotte van Rosenfeld and Vash Zwingli – now as the Kingdom of Belgium and the Swiss Confederation respectively. It is bizarre to live the life of an anthropomorphic country, to be the people of a selected, single nationality personified, and to make critically important decisions that could affect humankind for the rest of eternity.  
  
But these lives are not always so serious, and today Belgium and Switzerland are on a lunch break together after another adjourned World Meeting (for now). It will soon resume with Germany’s word as always, but for now the two European countries sit together and share chocolates. It is Christmas Day, after all, and while not every nation celebrates it, many do; America is holding a traditional Christmas celebration at his house following this meeting, and many are anxious to wrap it up to rush to America’s place.  
  
Belgium and Switzerland, on the other hand, are perfectly content with enjoying each other’s company as they are now. It comes with living so many other lives, tarnished by emotional turmoil, broken hearts, and missed chances. They are able to appreciate the finer, plain things in their daily lives now. And seeing as they both boast some of the best chocolates in the world, it seems fitting they share a moment indulging the exchanged sweets together.  
  
“These are wonderful, but not nearly as wonderful as mine,” Belgium teases her companion, but she has already eaten five of Switzerland’s chocolates. Switzerland, in turn, snorts at what he must think of as a ridiculous comment, and Belgium is pleased that they are comfortable enough with each other’s presences to act in such a way; she knows very well that he would never be caught dead snorting in front of someone like Prussia, Spain, or France. She supposes that this is another advantage to having shared so many lives that entwined irrevocably together, and it is not something that is easily cultivated or attained.   
  
“Is that so,” he dryly asks, pensively biting into another one of Belgium’s chocolates.

“It is,” she says indignantly, and takes one of Switzerland’s hands that is laying innocuously on the table top. He is a bit startled by the movement, but he does not withdraw his hand like he may have originally before they shared so many experiences together. “You know… I’m not sure whether or not we’re lucky or cursed.”  
  
“Hm,” Switzerland nearly hums, “I’d say both.”  
  
She laughs, finishing the last chocolate in her box, and squeezes his hand. It is surprisingly domestic, almost, and Belgium is reminded of the life with Vash Zwingli she left for the war. “C’mon,” she smiles playfully, gazing into his beautiful emerald irises, “we should probably be getting back.”  
  
He heaves a sigh. “Yes, you’re right. We needn’t delay this any longer than necessary.”  
  
“But one last thing,” Belgium interrupts before he can stand, and takes his other hand. She leans forward so their foreheads are touching, something she considers to be stronger a gesture of affection for another than a mere kiss. She can feel Switzerland’s even breathing as they lean against each other, feel his warmth as they offer each other physical – and a lengthened metaphor of mental – support. It is reassuring. They are living in the moment, and that is all that matters.   
  
“Merry Christmas, Switzerland.”  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> ok this is the longest fic (one-shot definitely) i have ever written
> 
> im really proud of myself
> 
> all the lyrics are by p!atd and every song is mentioned in each particular au. try and find 'em all (some are more obvious than others)
> 
> notes about names/characters in case you're not familiar (a lot were ocs of mine or other friends on the rp site tomorrowneverdies.proboards.com):
> 
> -ciel blanc (monaco)  
> -donald o'neill-kirkland (northern ireland)  
> -aoife o'neill (ireland)  
> -sera russo (nyo!italy)  
> -dixie normous (if you don't get this pun is2g im going to be so disappointed in u)
> 
> this was written for a secret santa (all i ever seem to write is for secret santas jesus) to a very dear friend of mine, asu!! merry christmas, darling! <3 i love you, and you're going to go on and accomplish great and incredible things -- even if it takes you ten tries.
> 
> im really sorry if char and vash weren't in character; they're both your muses and i don't know them as well as i should, but i tried ;w; also some of the aus were really shitty like the alice in wonderland au im sorry gRAH and one more thing there were originally thirteen parts to this, but i cut it down to ten. i didn't get use ballad of mona lisa, vegas lights, or bittersweet :(
> 
> anyways im also in the process of writing my first haikyuu!! fic and i hope i can finally get motivation to work on that, esp after cranking this monster out
> 
> but yes it is 4:21 am on christmas morning and goodbye friends i am done


End file.
